The Nightingale Legacy (8 page)

He didn’t find her at all. She must be an excellent rider,
for Treetop could be a handful even for him. For a stranger? For a female stranger who had the gall to put a sidesaddle on his massive back?

Unlike Miss Derwent-Jones, he didn’t have to hide himself during the day, and whatever else she was, stupid wasn’t it. He knew she’d continue the same habit of sleeping during the day and riding only at night. Thus, he rode through Exeter on to Bovey Tracy, rested for several hours in a copse of maple trees beside the road, then rode in one long spurt to Liskeard. He put up at the Naked Goose Inn and slept for six straight hours. He was off again at six o’clock in the morning.

The weather had held, thank heaven for that, and he’d made excellent time. He might be riding a horse he would disdain in any other circumstance, but he found that the mare did have grit and a good deal of endurance. It never occurred to him to sell her or leave her at an inn and rent another horse. No, even though he didn’t know her name, he quite liked her. Toward the end of that first long day, just as he was growing near to Liskeard, he’d named her Regina, for that’s what she’d become. “It’s just a temporary name,” he told her, patting down her fat neck, “just until we find that damned mistress of yours. If she survives the meeting with me, why then, you can return to her and to your old name.”

When he’d come out of the Naked Goose Inn in Liskeard early the following morning, he knew she’d seen him coming, for her head went up and she whinnied at him, nodding her head. Then when he reached her, she’d butted her head against his hand.

“You’re quite the seductress, aren’t you, Reggie? Have a carrot, old girl, then we’ll be on our way.” He stroked her soft muzzle, fed her until he swore she was grinning at
him, then mounted and off they went, all the way to St. Agnes today.

He wondered what he would do when he met Caroline Derwent-Jones again. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, telling her that someone had killed her aunt. He wondered what he would do when Mr. Ffalkes came here to get her. He sighed. He didn’t want to be involved with this girl, with her bravado and her innocence, ah, and he couldn’t forget that her ready wit had made him laugh at least twice, had made him resort to wit and conversation that had come rather easily and made him not at all uncomfortable. He’d felt a bit like he’d felt at Chase Park with the Wyndhams, a temporary feeling at best, this liking and comfort he’d found with Marcus and his bride, Duchess, and their servants, who were better friends than most people gained in a lifetime. No, he’d left Yorkshire, deeming it time for him to return to Cornwall, to face those demons that awaited him there, finally, to take over his birthright, for he’d become Viscount Chilton fifteen months earlier upon the unexpected death of his father.

Above all, though, he’d wanted his solitude. He did better alone. He had his dogs, his horses, his house that was vast and empty save for the few servants who had lived their lives there, it seemed, knowing nothing else save the Nightingales.

No, he didn’t want to deal with Miss Derwent-Jones again. Once was quite enough. He didn’t want to admire her delicious little ears or those nicely arched eyebrows of hers that he’d smoothed down with his fingertips each time he’d awakened her, or that long graceful neck, save to close his fingers around it and squeeze. Most of all, he didn’t want to be the one to tell her that her aunt was dead, murdered, stabbed in the back, and thrown over the ledge at St. Agnes Head.

He rode directly to his estate, Mount Hawke, looming high and stark atop a gently rising hill above the village of the same name, the protector of those villagers since the time Henry VIII had chopped off Katherine Howard’s pretty head. Indeed, the estate records showed that the great doors were affixed to Mount Hawke on the exact day of her beheading.

He hated the bloody mausoleum, more a square-built castle really, with four towers that weren’t good for anything, large drafty staircases and corridors, stone floors that echoed footsteps as if an army were marching through, cold as the devil those bloody floors were, save where his ancestors along about one hundred years later had thrown down thick Turkey carpets. It was built all of mellow gray stone quarried nearby at Baldhu, and still quite beautiful if one were objective, which North wasn’t. And the pile belonged to him and he was supposed to cherish it, since it had passed from father to son in an unbroken chain for nearly three hundred and fifty years, quite a feat in itself, the continuous propagation of male after male. It was impressive, he admitted, in a rather foreboding, menacing sort of way, standing tall atop its own private hill, casting its shadow over the slopes of the hill and the town below.

It was nearly dark when he rode up the wide carriage drive that made deep curves back and forth many times so the ascent wouldn’t be too steep before reaching the great black iron gates. Since there was no more threat of invading armies or invading neighbors, comfort was the thing. He imagined that when it was built, it looked like a clumsy helmet sitting atop a naked man’s head, all impressive and isolated and alone.

Tom O’Laddy, the Nightingale gatekeeper for longer than North had been alive, greeted him with a huge grin, showing the empty space that should have held his front teeth, the
result of a fight he’d won. He sighed, then fainted dead away. O’Laddy was a man of ale and jests. Too much ale, and he was a man of violence.

“Ho, my lord! ’Tis home ye are. ’Twere a short trip to Lunnon, eh? Foul place, Lunnon. Mr. Coombe and Mr. Tregeagle weren’t expecting ye fer another fortnight.”

“Good evening, Tom. Yes, I can see you’re wondering where Treetop is, but this sweet old girl is Reggie and she’s really quite a surprise, lots of heart. How’s your nephew?”

“He’s still on the weak side, my lord, but Mr. Polgrain sends the lad some of his special broth every day and thus he’s on the mend.”

“Excellent. Next time tell him not to fall out of his boat and nearly drown himself.”

“Aye, my lord, the boy’s properly learnt his lesson. Actually, it was that little nit of a blacksmith’s daughter who’d pushed him out of the boat. It seems he was making advances and she didn’t like it.”

North grunted, at least he tried to, but a smile came up instead.

He rode through the great gates and still upward, the carriage path growing even wider now as it neared that monstrous edifice that had tried over the past three centuries to become more a home than a fortress, and he supposed it had succeeded. There had even once been a drawbridge, considered in the enlightened sixteenth century to be quite unnecessary, but that drawbridge had saved Mount Hawke from Oliver Cromwell’s Roundhead soldiers in the bloody civil war in the next century. Long since, the wide deep gully had been filled in and an orchard planted, now thick with apple trees, rippling down the sides of the slopes, beautiful, really.

Men, he thought, as he pulled Reggie to a gentle halt and looked upward at the massive rising blocks of gray stone
that went up and up until they seemed to reach the dark skies themselves on overcast days. Men must fight and conquer or die trying. They couldn’t seem to content themselves with what they had even if it was really quite sufficient. He himself had been a soldier, and it had been his goal to stop Napoleon, at least that’s what he continually told himself. Truth be told, he liked a good fight. He liked to test himself, his strength, his wits, on any and all opponents. He supposed he would have done very well in medieval times. With Napoleon tucked away on Elba he couldn’t imagine any more war on such a scale. Sometimes it depressed him. He knew it depressed his friend Marcus Wyndham, as well. And now Marcus was well married and running his own estate, just as North would now do as well. He marveled at the ways of life.

He rode Reggie to the magnificent Mount Hawke stable, a long brick building with tack rooms, large stalls, hay bins, everything his obsessive great-grandfather could think of. He dismounted Reggie, waved to Pa-Dou, and waited until the frail old man had come to take the mare’s reins.

He chatted with old Pa-Dou, watching in amazement. Hard to believe his arthritic gnarled fingers could so skillfully handle the horses’ reins and saddles.

Tomorrow he would go to Goonbell. He found himself grinning as he clasped the huge brass knocker and slammed it against the oak door. Goonbell. Good Lord, what if instead of Mount Hawke—surely a name that sounded rather splendid—he lived in Mount Goonbell overlooking the village of Goonbell.

He was chuckling when Coombe, his butler and his father’s butler before him, opened the doors to him and blinked to see his master actually laughing.

North eyed the astonished Coombe, realized the reason for his astonishment, and said, “I was just thinking how
odd it would sound were we called Mount Goonbell, and not Mount Hawke. It both amuses and terrifies.”

Coombe appeared to ponder this for a moment, then said, “Surely laughter is too strong a reaction to such an unfortunate thought, my lord.”

North grunted.

“Much better,” Coombe said. “Welcome home, my lord, though I can’t imagine why you’re here two weeks sooner than we expected you to be here.”

She hadn’t yet arrived in Goonbell and he knew this was where she would come, at the very least to find out how to reach Scrilady Hall. He asked the fishermen, who knew everything about everyone, and the innkeeper, Mrs. Freely, who outdid the fishermen. No Miss Derwent-Jones.

He sighed and remounted Reggie. It took him only thirty minutes to reach Scrilady Hall, just outside of Trevellas, no more than a half mile from the sea.

There were three servants in residence at the seasoned redbrick manor house set amid charmingly wild bougainvillea and roses and jasmine. It was a lovely house and now, he supposed, it belonged to Miss Derwent-Jones, though he wasn’t certain of that.

But it was here she would come, eventually.

He was greeted by Dr. Benjamin Treath, who was showing an unknown gentleman about the house.

“Ah, my boy, do come in. What are you doing here?”

North only nodded, not yet ready to say anything.

“This is Mr. Brogan, a solicitor who is here to make an inventory of everything so that Squire Penrose’s will can be executed.”

“I see,” North said. “When do you expect Miss Derwent-Jones to arrive, Mr. Brogan?”

There was nothing more than a rapid blinking of Mr.
Brogan’s large brown eyes to give away his surprise.

He merely fastened his eyes on a point just beyond North’s left shoulder and said, “I hadn’t realized, my lord, that you were so intimate with the family. Indeed, there is Miss Derwent-Jones and there is a Mr. Penrose—obviously on the squire’s side of the family—who is the only other family member standing to inherit. Mr. Bennett Penrose has been here in the area on and off over the past five or so years. Of course I can really say no more about it until I’ve read the will to the two aforementioned individuals.”

“Commendable,” North said. He turned to Dr. Treath. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes, but it’s difficult, North, very difficult. Nothing more has come to light since you left for your trip to London. Ah, you weren’t gone for very long.”

“No, not long at all. I assume you wrote to Miss Derwent-Jones, Mr. Brogan?”

Again Mr. Brogan gave no sign of surprise. “Yes, some weeks ago. I don’t know why I haven’t heard from her, but one must suppose that she will arrive shortly. If she doesn’t arrive by the end of the week, I will write again. The post isn’t all that reliable.”

“Yes, you are probably right.”

“You are acquainted with the lady, my lord?”

“Yes,” North said.

“But how? I don’t understand any of this, my lord.”

“It’s a rather involved tale, Mr. Brogan. Why don’t we wait for Miss Derwent-Jones.”

Mrs. Trebaw, the housekeeper, served them tea and cakes in the drawing room. Conversation was pleasant. North took his leave some minutes later, before Dr. Treath or Mr. Brogan could inquire how the devil he had met Miss Derwent-Jones, why he was here, and what the hell he wanted.

It appeared that Miss Derwent-Jones would be greeted by
a solicitor and Dr. Treath when she arrived. She didn’t need him there to tell her that some madman had killed her aunt. He tried to believe it, but didn’t really.

But Miss Derwent-Jones didn’t go to Scrilady Hall.

At ten o’clock the following night, Coombe lightly knocked on North’s library door. He cleared his throat as he entered, looked over North’s right shoulder at the shadowed mantel, upon which sat a very old clock made in Hamburg that was just quietly striking the tenth of its strokes.

“Yes, Coombe?”

“My lord, this is difficult and unusual and not at all what we are used to. There’s a
Young Lady
here to see you. It is dreadfully late, and she looks quite in a state, and I was on the point of telling her to peddle her wares elsewhere when she drew this pistol on me and demanded to see you.”

N
ORTH WAS PAST
him in a moment, striding quickly into the long narrow entrance hall. She was standing there by the front door, her head bent, her shoulders slumped, the single valise sitting by her left foot. She was wearing her cloak, dreadfully wrinkled and soiled now, but had pulled the hood back. Her hair was coiled around her head in thick braids, now coming loose, trailing tendrils of lazily curling hair over her shoulders. Hanging limp in her right hand was the infamous pistol.

At that moment, she raised her head. It wasn’t fatigue he saw. It was pain, raw and deep, and fear.

“Miss Derwent-Jones,” he said, striding toward her. “God, I’m sorry, so very sorry.”

She gulped, he saw it, and she gulped again. Then he held out his arms, something entirely unplanned, something that didn’t quite seem as odd as it should have, and she threw herself against him. For several moments, she was rigid, her hands fisted against his chest. The pistol fell from her fingers and skittered over the smooth marble of the entrance hall. Then suddenly, she began to sob, deep rending sobs that shook her entire body. She seemed to collapse against him, all the fight, all the bravado swept away by her grief and her shock.